Magoo has had day camp all week. It’s at a local forest preserve, and she has been having a blast.
About half an hour before she was due to be done today, I heard a huge clap of thunder. I instantly went into the babies’ rooms and woke them up so we could go get their sister. Magoo has always been afraid of storms. TJ has been working with her, and she’s getting better, but still… I knew I should be there.
Of course it took forever to get the babies going, and of course there was traffic on the way there, so it took us almost twenty minutes to get to the forest preserve. As soon as we got there, I jumped out of the car and went to go sign her out. I was relieved when I got up there and she looked fine. And then we started walking to the car, and about ten steps in, I looked down to see tears rolling from underneath her baseball hat, and my heart broke a little bit.
We had to keep rushing to the car because of the rain, but as soon as we got in, she started telling me how she was so scared because of the thunder. Luckily then she was distracted by the rag doll she had made and things were good again.
But all the way home, I kept thinking about those tears.
This isn’t the first time she seemed totally okay and then started crying when she saw me. At the beginning of the school year, we had forgotten to return one of her school library books, so she wasn’t allowed to check out a new one. All in school, she was able to compose herself, but when she came running towards me, she broke down, her little broken heart spilling out as tears through her eyes.
Any time this happens, my heart breaks a little bit. After all, no one wants to see their baby upset. But at the same time, my heart fills up as well. Because I realize that I am that person for her. The person who represents safety and trust and protection. She doesn’t feel safe letting those tears flow around others. But with me she does. Those tears are a gift to me, nonverbal communication that shows me that I am inside the boundaries. That I am a part of her heart.
Sometimes it gets frustrating talking to little kids all day, every day. People always joke about how teenagers think they know everything, but one hour with a 6 year old will show you that the know-it-all phase starts way earlier than thirteen. Dozens upon dozens of times a day, I hear the phrase, “Actually Mom…” as she sets off to point out the error of my ways. I try to explain to people how this is frustrating, but no one else sees it. Even TJ doesn’t get the “Actually…” line as much as I do.
But I realize that it’s two ends to the same coin. The same relationship that allows her the space to share her tears with me, allows her the space to share her anger or frustration with me. It’s a letting down of barriers; a relaxation of boundaries.
I’ve mentioned on here before Momastery’s notion of chronos and kairos time with regards to motherhood. Chronos time is the every day time, the mundane in and out and in and out that takes up most of our days. But kairos time is God’s time. It’s in those transcendent moments when the world sort of stops as our hearts speed up, and we are brought heart to heart with another soul and we reside in this place that’s just a bit too holy for this world.
These moments with my girls are my kairos moments. They are the moments that remind me that motherhood requires a lot of laundry and dishes and late nights and tears. But more than that, it’s about the joining of souls in a dance as old as time. It’s about being able to come into communion with the innocence of childhood and it’s being let into the secret that this innocence is where truth resides.
About eight years ago, TJ and I got some devastating news. We had been trying to get pregnant for a couple of years, and we thought that perhaps finally we were going to get that positive pregnancy test. All the signs were pointing in the right direction. I woke up and I took a test, and it was negative, but I didn’t let that deter my hope. I knew this was the time. I knew it.
And then a few hours later the phone rang with results for a test we had forgotten about. And the results weren’t good. We learned at that point that it might be impossible for us to get pregnant using only fertility methods that we were morally comfortable with.
We were devastated, and I didn’t know what to do.
We lived in a high rise at the time. I took the phone and I went out on the balcony. My eyes were clear, my voice was strong. And then I dialed my parents’ phone number, and when my mom answered, I couldn’t speak. My mouth was moving and sound was coming out, but the words were in no way coherent. I could hear my mom start to panic as she heard the desperation in my voice. She was probably afraid someone had died. It took a few moments, but finally I was able to explain what had happened. It took a while for me to gain my full composure.
I think back on that night sometimes when I think about my girls. It reminds me that the bond between mother and child changes, but it doesn’t go away. I might not need my mom to take care of my every physical need or hold my hand when I cross the street. But when it comes to that place where we need trust and we need home, Mom and Dad are always the places we go. Because it’s what we knew first. It’s where we learn trust and love and acceptance. And as such, it’s where we often go to seek it.
So as my girls progress through life, I know they won’t always come running to me after a tough day at camp. They might not need me to console their every disappointment. But I trust that when they really need a soul to connect with that they will find their way back to me. And in those moments, I will remember that kairos can exist at any time in any place when two souls seek connection.
And it’s in those moments, that I will be most grateful for this gift of motherhood. Because of all of the joys and blessings of this vocation, perhaps the greatest is the privilege of being that person for another soul for the whole of a life. God’s time indeed.